


Life After Death

by papergardener



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Feels, Happy Ending, Hector is confused and sleepy, Imector, Missing Scene, Old Married Couple, Reconciliation, Romance, formerly titled Don't Leave, hop aboard the feels train
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-03 20:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13348710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papergardener/pseuds/papergardener
Summary: When Héctor finds himself fading away, he holds onto the one thing that matters… family.An exploration of the tentatively re-joined Rivera family, and how Héctor and Imelda begin to reconcile after so much time.





	1. Don't Leave

The air exploded in a swirl of orange marigold petals, and Miguel was gone. He was safe. Breathing a sigh of relief, Héctor slowly rolled his head over and saw the sun cresting over the horizon, a deep red against a dark sky.  
  
_Dia de los Muertos_ was over.  
  
He was out of time, but it was all right. Even if he never saw Coco again, at least Miguel could pass on his message. He would tell Coco that he loved her, that he missed her more than life. That would be enough. There was another tremor, and for a horrible moment he thought it was his last as his bones seized like they might shatter from the inside. But Imelda was there, holding him tight until the shaking stopped, and then kept holding him.  
  
At least… at least he wasn’t alone.  
  
That thought was a comfort as he lay there, the marigold still clutched in his hand, although that was only because Imelda held it for him. Imelda… he wished he had been there for her sooner.  
  
“I… I’m sorry...” he breathed out. “I’m sorry, Imelda.”  
  
His eyes couldn’t focus, could barely stay open. He wished he had more time, just to be with her. There were so many things he wanted to tell her, wanted to see her smile, see her laugh. He closed his eyes, let his body sink down.  
  
“I never should have left,” he whispered, grimacing. _It was my fault_ , he thought. Perhaps this was what he deserved.  
  
He was so… so tired.  
  
Yet, he didn’t mind it so much anymore. The golden tremors had stopped, and he felt at peace. There was the feeling of everything fading, of an overwhelming, stifling darkness.  
  
This wasn’t so bad…  
  
“Héctor!” Imelda yelled, jolting him from the dark fog. He blinked, and was barely able to see her against the glare of the sun, even though everything seemed so dark.  
  
“Remember when Coco was born?” she said, her voice low and strained. “Remember when you first held her in your arms?”  
  
Yes… he remembered, but struggled to make the words come out. “I remember. She… she was incredible.”  
  
Coco… his little Socorro. He had stayed with Imelda all through her birth, holding her hand as she fought through the pain. But then their child had been born, a little girl, and the midwife had placed her in his arms. A daughter… crying and filthy, but so small, so fragile and so beautiful that his heart broke. As he placed her in Imelda’s arms, he thought she was the most precious thing in all the world. His daughter, his family…  
  
He curled up as his bones threatened to abandon him. His fingers clung to Imelda, who was there and real, and he felt suddenly like a child, lost and alone. The thought was brutally disorienting… he wasn’t a child, he was old. Too old, too young. His own thoughts were unraveling like thread between his fingers. Like sand. Like dust.  
  
“Just hold on, stay with me.” Her voice was growing softer, like she was fading away. “Just stay a little longer.”  
  
Except no, he was the one fading. He was the one leaving.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, perhaps too quiet to hear. He could no longer feel his body. It was like the moment just before waking, or just before drifting to sleep. A sense of nothingness.  
  
No eyes to open, no mouth to speak.  
  
He was nothing. No name. No breath, everything perfectly still. Quiet.  
  
It was so… peaceful. This was ok.  
  
_Don’t leave me_ …  
  
The words sent a fierce shiver all through him, when he thought all feeling had left. A voice… he knew that voice.  
  
Imelda.  
  
No… he couldn’t leave her. Not again.  
  
He struggled against the surrounding fog and the heavy, heavy weariness. It was like being buried in sand, an impossible weight. It was so heavy, pulling him down… never in life or death had he ever felt so exhausted.  
  
_Don’t leave me_ …  
  
He had a wife, a daughter… he clutched at that thought before it slipped away. His daughter, Coco. He needed to tell her… he loved her. Faintly he became aware of something anchoring him, keeping him there. There was a pressure, something holding him, and from that he sensed he still had a body.  
  
Then came a voice, more clearly than before.  
  
“Don’t leave…”  
  
Once again there was an _otherness_ besides his own being. The weight was lifting. Slowly, incredibly…  
  
“Please…” Imelda whispered.  
  
_Imelda, mi amor_ …  
  
He opened his eyes, blinking against the light. High, high overhead he saw sky, pale blue with streaks of pink. It was past sunrise. The softness at the edges of his existence had left.  
  
Perhaps he made a sound, or something had changed, because Imelda carefully pulled away from him and looked into his face.  
  
He tried to speak but couldn’t, could barely move. Slowly, painfully he sat up, or at least tried to. He wasn’t sure how much was him and how much was Imelda’s arm at his back, supporting him. With a surprising amount of effort, he brought a shaking hand to his chest and felt it clack against his ribcage, startlingly vivid. He was still there.  
  
“She remembered,” Imelda whispered.  
  
Coco… remembered him. He looked to Imelda and realized she was holding his hand. It had been her voice that had pulled him back. It had been her telling him not to leave.  
  
He smiled, overcome with thoughts and feelings that were far beyond his comprehension. Weariness settled in his bones, but this time it was familiar, safe. He would be all right.  
  
“I’m…” he breathed, “I’m here.”  
  
Finally, finally… he had kept his promise.  
  
He didn’t leave his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a one-shot that got away from me.  
> One thing I discovered while writing this were some interesting… I suppose parallels. Complementary opposites, perhaps. Dusk and dawn, life and death, joy and sorrow… that sort of thing.  
> There’s one tiny part of a scene here that really stuck with me, and it’s when he’s dying and he suddenly feels like a child. See, my mom would sometimes remark that when people get old, the cycle kinda starts over again and they become child-like. I would see this with my own grandma who, as she got older, ate her food with her hands like a kid, and it’s always kinda lingered with me, this weird parallel between old and young, birth and dying...
> 
> Feedback is appreciated!  
> Next chapter we get to see how Imelda reacts...


	2. Won’t Lose Him Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imelda tries to wrap her mind around what to do with her husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick recap of the Rivera family…  
> Felipe and Oscar are Imelda’s twin brothers.  
> Julio is Coco’s husband (so Imelda’s son-in-law). Rosita is Julio’s sister.  
> Victoria is Coco and Julio’s daughter (so Imelda’s and Héctor’s grand-daughter).

All things considered, Imelda shouldn’t have been too surprised when Héctor collapsed in her arms. There had been a brief bout of panic, but the golden tremors had stopped completely, not even a flicker. He was safe, at least for the moment.  
  
Familiar voices clustered around her, all talking over each other as she knelt there with Héctor in her lap. Their words barely reached her as she gazed into his face which only moments before had been nothing but shining golden light. He had very, very nearly disappeared.  
  
“Is he ok?”  
  
“How did you—“  
  
“Miguel did it! He must have—“  
  
“Ay! Don’t look now, but we’ve got company!” Julio said loudly. They all looked up and saw a mob of skeletons approaching at a rush. Imelda gripped Héctor closer, not sure what was going on, but entirely unwilling to let him go.  
  
Before she could say a word, her family had crowded in front, blocking her from view. There was the sound of heavy wings and Pepita leapt out between them and the crowd, unleashing a terrible roar and provoking more than one shriek of terror.  
  
“Psst, this way!” A voice came from the side of the building, and they saw Frida Kahlo (or, Imelda figured, one of the dancers dressed as her) standing at a door and beckoning towards them. While Pepita kept the crowd back, Oscar and Felipe carried Héctor while the others hurried alongside as they all funneled through the stage door. Imelda kept glancing back to make sure they weren’t followed, while the Frida Kahlo dancer led the way down an empty corridor.  
  
“You can stay in my room, it’ll be quiet there,” she said, finally coming to a door and opening it, ushering them into a large, comfortable dressing room. Imelda stood outside to make sure the whole family made it in, several times looking down the long gray hallway, but all was clear. When she turned back, Frida was standing there, peering after her family with a slightly anxious look.  
  
“Thank you,” Imelda said, and genuinely meant it.  
  
Frida smiled, looking her in the eyes. “Don’t mention it. From one artist to another.” For a moment Imelda had no idea what she was referring to. Then Frida’s smile grew wider as she put a hand on Imelda’s shoulder. “Your singing… it was inspired.”  
  
Imelda’s mouth opened in shock, but she was speechless. Frida Kahlo clapped her shoulder and walked off, calling back, “Take as long as you need. I’ll see what I can do to get rid of the crowd.”  
  
Imelda stood gaping after her, before Rosita was at her side.  
  
“Are you coming in?”  
  
“Huh? Oh… yes.” She made sure to lock the door behind her and turned to see her family, and in the midst of them was Héctor, lying very still on a sofa against the far wall.  
  
“How is he?”  
  
“Hasn’t woken yet,” Felipe said, looking down at him.  
  
“I’d say he looks pretty dead, if it were any other time,” Oscar added, peering over his brother’s shoulder.  
  
She frowned, thinking hard about what to do and finding that she was, perhaps unreasonably, annoyed with Héctor. As usual. What was she going to do with him? She glared down at him lying there, and the anger softened.  
  
He was so still…  
  
Stepping closer, she reminded herself that he didn’t need to breathe and could lie as still as he liked, it didn’t have to mean anything. He was probably fine. There was a low sound of scraping as Victoria pull up a chair for her right beside the sofa, which she happily sank into.  
  
“So… that was something,” Oscar said into the lingering silence.  
  
“Anyone know why that crowd was chasing after us?” Julio said, leaning against a wall and fanning himself with his hat.  
  
“Oh… that was probably our fault,” Rosita said with a sheepish grin. “We may have broadcast all of…  _that_.” She gave a little flick of her hand, encompassing all of whatever  _that_  was.

  
“Broadcast?” Imelda said, not comprehending in the slightest.  
  
“Well, Rosita turned the camera and I pushed a button,” Victoria said with a shrug. “Not sure if it actually worked, but it would explain the sudden swarm coming after us. If I had to guess, they were coming to celebrate Miguel’s safe return to the Land of the Living. As well as Héctor not being Forgotten.”  
  
“Oh. That’s… good then,” Julio said, although still looking confused. “I thought maybe we were all in big trouble. Like de la Cruz had set his fans on us or something.”  
  
“I doubt that,” Victoria said with a sly smile. “If it worked, everyone will now know the truth about what he did; as good as any confession.”  
  
“And I think we’ll have an easier time convincing everyone that he really did murder Héctor,” Felipe said.  
  
“I wasn’t sure if I fully believed it myself,” Julio said, “but then he goes and tries to murder a child. A living child!”  
  
“And not just any kid, our poor Miguelito!” Rosita cried.  
  
Imelda tuned out the rest of the chatter, and in the relative privacy of inconspicuousness she looked at Héctor, taking in the faded markings on his yellowed skull, the sharp cheekbones, the empty eyes.  
  
She didn’t know what to think of him anymore. For decades she had carefully built a wall around her heart, a hard case of armor against all the hurt he had caused. She could feel that armor cracking, and it scared her.  
  
He had left, and that was all she had ever known. For years and years, gone without a word. She had rarely considered that he might have been hurt, much less dead. If that had happened, then surely de la Cruz would have written her.  _Surely_  there would have been a letter to his widow. But there had been no letter, no message, no nothing. So she had assumed the worst- that her husband had run off and abandoned his family. Thinking on it now, she understood why there had been no letter.  
  
Miguel said Héctor had been trying to come home. If that was true… the thought was like touching hot oil, and her mind flinched at it.  
  
The fact was that he had left them, she reminded herself. He had left a young mother and a too-young daughter alone in the world. That was his fault and no one else’s. Because of him, she had spent nights awake wondering how she would be able to feed Coco the next day, fearing what would become of them. The bills had piled up, forcing her to beg money from her brothers, but they were struggling too. She had been the only one there to comfort Coco when she asked where her Papá was, when he would come home.  
  
But he had tried to come back, her mind whispered.  
  
So maybe he did, she thought with a sour taste in her mouth. But when? Was it after years of singing and travelling? When was it that he had gotten so sick of that life that he had given it up? Did it even matter? A part of her wanted to cling to the bitter resentment she had so carefully built up. Then the obvious answer flared in her mind like a match in the dark.  
  
Of course. It was when the letters had stopped. She had been furious as day after day went by without a single word from him, not a cent to help support his family. What made it worse was how soon the letters had stopped, it had only been… oh.  
  
He had tried to come back after a few months. And he had been murdered for it. Her husband had died and she had never mourned him. Instead, she spent the rest of her life (and her death) hating him. Had shredded his letters, gotten rid of all of his things, tried to erase him from their lives.  
  
She had removed him entirely from her family. His family…  
  
“Imelda?”  
  
Her head jerked up at Felipe’s voice, and realized she had had no idea what they were talking about.  
  
“Are you ok?” he asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.  
  
“Fine,” she said brusquely, embarrassed at being caught unaware.  
  
“I just wanted to say that I know a lot has happened and you’re worried about Héctor,” Imelda flinched at that: that he thought she was actually worried about the idiot. “But… it was good to hear you sing again.”  
  
Imelda took in a sharp breath, suddenly very self-conscious of her whole family looking at her.  
  
“Ohh, I wanted to ask about that!” Rosita said, looking far too excited.  
  
Julio chuckled. “Coco had told me you used to sing when she was little, but I had no idea you could sing like that. It was incredible!”  
  
“Not just that, your dancing!” Oscar said with a laugh. “Those guards didn’t who they were messing with.”  
  
“Perhaps I’m missing something here, but I thought you hated music,” Victoria said, peering at her through her pince-nez glasses. “I always thought the reason we weren’t allowed any music in the family was because of you. Since when do you sing?”  
   
Imelda leaned back, distinctly uncomfortable.  
  
“I… didn’t use to hate music,” she said slowly, but was interrupted by her brother’s laughter.  
  
“That’s an understatement!” Felipe said. “Imelda here was a great singer. Our Tia Jimena was always having to fend off suitors who were entranced by her singing.”  
  
“Really?” Rosita said. “That’s so romantic.”  
   
Oscar added, “I don’t know about all that. Fidel would say that you can trust a músico as far as you can throw him.”  
   
“Didn’t stop you from marrying one,” Felipe said with a chuckle.  
  
Imelda pinched the bridge of her nose. “Don’t remind me.”  
   
“So what happened?”  
  
“He left,” she said.  
  
“He was murdered,” Oscar said sharply, effectively bringing the temperature down ten degrees in the room. There were a lot of implications in those words, and it went beyond just her and Héctor. Her choices had affected all of their lives. Because of her, music had been forbidden in the family, denying them the same thing that had once brought her so much joy.  
  
An unbidden memory rose to her mind of Miguel running away from her through the winding alley, brushing away tears as he disappeared from sight. He would have rather died than give up music. She had pushed him to make that choice. Had refused to send him back home unless he agreed to her conditions.

What had she been thinking? She could have sent him back right at the start if she hadn’t hated music so much. It seemed so petty at the moment, but she couldn’t bear the idea of anyone else in her family being anything like her husband.  
  
An uncomfortable notion settled on her mind… Miguel had very nearly been killed because of her.  
  
There was a faint noise of rustling clothes and Imelda looked up to see her whole family looking to her for guidance, or perhaps an explanation. But it was not the time for personal thoughts or distractions. Unfortunately, she thought with a twitch of her eye, the whole thing was exceedingly personal, which made it much more difficult to handle.  
  
“So… what now?” Rosita asked as the silence stretched on.  
  
That was a good question.  
  
The real question… was Héctor a part of their family?

She looked at him, still unmoving, and quickly shoved down the torrent of emotions that he brought. He was a wrench in her carefully structured life.  
  
Damn him.  
  
She had to focus. Straightening up, she rose from her chair and paced to the middle of the room.  
  
“It’s been a very long night. I’m sure you’re all tired and there’s no reason for all of us to stay. The rest of you, go home and get some rest. The crowds should be thinning by now, so you shouldn’t have much trouble getting out.”  
  
Julio raised a questioning hand. “But what about—“  
  
“I’ll stay.” Imelda stood with her back straight, arms crossed tight, and didn’t look at any of them.  
  
“Come on, we’re not going to leave now,” Oscar said with a broad grin.  
  
Rosita chimed in, “He’s right. We’re staying—“  
  
“No,” Imelda said firmly, leaving no room for argument. “You all need to get some rest. I will stay and look after him.”  
  
There were shared glances between them, but they all took the cue, standing and heading towards the door with off-hand comments.  
  
“All right, then.”  
  
“If you insist.”  
  
“I am pretty tired, now that you mention it.”  
  
As the others left, Felipe put a hand on her shoulder, an unspoken kindness. She put her hand on his, and was glad he didn’t say anything, didn’t judge her, before he too walked out. The door closed with a little click, and she took two long breaths before she let herself relax. She needed time alone to think, and at the moment her comatose husband didn’t count as company.  
  
It was finally quiet, and it was a relief to sink again into the chair beside him. He hadn’t moved an inch, and it was making her increasingly nervous.  
  
Just what was she going to do with him, she thought miserably. A grudge carried through the decades was not something that could be overcome in a moment, but she was getting there. She watched him, a finger pressed against her lips as her mind tried to shift through all of her thoughts. But there was one that kept coming back, again and again.  
  
“You tried to come home,” she whispered, focusing on that, turning it over and over like a cracked geode so it could catch the light.  
  
He hadn’t abandoned their family… he had been killed.  
  
And she had never mourned him.  
  
Instead, she had tried to forget him entirely, had sworn she would never forgive him. She had forced herself to focus on her life, on the life of her daughter, and so she had cut him out. Had scorned anything that reminded her of him, even music, the thing that had brought them together. She thought to the night before when she descended those dark, candle-lit steps and had seen him playing for her, so she wasn’t so alone.  
  
_And even if it costs my life, Llorona_  
_I won't stop loving you…_  
  
She put a hand over her heart, as if she could still feel it fluttering beneath her ribs. She had sworn she would never sing again, especially not with him. Had sworn that she wouldn’t open her heart to that pain. The truth, though, was she had missed his music. Although that wasn’t quite it… she missed his voice, his laugh, his hands in hers as they danced, the heat of his skin.  
  
She  _missed_  him.  
  
It was a terrifying thought, one that she had fought against for decades. She hadn’t allowed herself to miss him, because it made hating him so much harder.  
  
Héctor shifted, his head turning with a faint grimace and making her straighten in her seat. Then he stilled again. She studied him, noting how shabby he looked, and not just his clothes.  
  
Gently she reached out a hand and brought it across his forehead, tracing the colorful markings that hadn’t been there in life. It was strange to touch him again, to be so close after so much time apart. Sharply she was struck with an intense sense of déjà vu and pulled her hand back at the unexpected memory.

It reminded her of their wedding.

Well, rather, the night after the wedding. The had both been exhausted after staying up until sunrise, through the traditional _tornaboda_  after-party. The sun had barely risen when they finally gone to their new home, both collapsing into bed and sleeping the day away before their  _first_  wedding night which was an altogether different matter… one that she really didn’t need to think about at the moment.

But there had been one moment, one distinct moment that she still remembered, when she had turned over in bed to find him fast asleep beside her, looking so young, so sweet and peaceful. They had been so close, they had their whole lives before them. They had been happy.

She thought back to the man she had married: kind, ridiculous, loving, a good husband and father. He must have missed them.  
  
And she had despised him. All that time.  
  
It was like a knife in her stomach, and then it twisted as a new terrible thought flashed through her mind.  
  
How much had he suffered?  
  
For once, she let herself imagine what it must have been like, arriving in that place so young. Would he have had any other family in the Land of the Dead? Maybe not. She knew enough of his early life to realize he wouldn’t have known his family, living or dead. How lonely must that have been. When she had finally crossed over, her family had been there to embrace her, welcome her to a new life. It had helped more than she could possibly say. He never had that.

For all those years he must have waited to be reunited with his family, and she had turned him away. Repeatedly. Worse than that, she had tried to remove him entirely from her life, and had very nearly succeeded. That thought was like ice water down her back.  
  
He had nearly been Forgotten. Because of her.

Perhaps he wasn’t the only one who needed to ask forgiveness. 

She gazed into his still face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, but he made no response.  
   
Leaning back, she felt exhaustion creep under her eyelids and press down on her shoulders. Sleep sounded wonderful, but she didn’t want to sleep just yet. So much time had been wasted, time that they would never get back. A part of her still feared that he might disappear, and then he’d be gone and she would never have another chance to be with him, talk to him.  
  
She decided, then and there, that she wasn’t going to lose him again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an interesting chapter. I never planned to write it, not until I was almost done with what is now chapter 4 (before it went in a very different direction). But Imelda is such a fun, dynamic character. When I first saw the movie, in her first scene I thought she might be a villain. I mean, come on! One of her lines is 'you go home my way... or no way!' like dude, Imelda? I love you, but chill. Honestly she's so much fun.
> 
> When I first started writing this, I didn’t understand where she was in regards to Héctor at the end of the movie, but when re-watching the movie, it’s amazing how quickly they reconnect. I mean, it’s obvious that’s she’s furious with him at first, but also how much she missed him.  
> When she leaps into his arms?? They’re so fucking in love, it’s wonderful.


	3. Just a Dream… wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Héctor stumbles around an empty theater wondering... the f*ck?

Héctor woke up very confused.  
  
For one unnerving moment, he thought he had died. But no, he was already dead. That wasn’t the problem.  
  
He was just very confused and very, very tired.  
  
It certainly didn’t help that on opening his eyes he found himself in a strange… what? Dressing room? Bedroom? Whoever it belonged to, they apparently really liked Frida Kahlo, based on the décor.  
  
Also confusing… Imelda was there.  
  
There had been a glint of purple in the corner of his eye that had caught his attention. With an effort he rolled his head to the side, blinking the bleariness away before his vision cleared. It should have been impossible, but there was no question: it was Imelda. She sat asleep in a chair, her chin resting against her collarbone, her mouth faintly open. His mind was hazy as he watched her for a minute or more, barely comprehending what was happening, but only kept reflecting how nice it all was.  
  
It had been a long, long time since he had seen her so close and so peaceful, her face not twisted in hate at the sight of him. He thought back to when they had been alive, and he would sometimes find her like this, asleep in a chair, sometimes nodding herself awake and he would tease her for it. Usually, it was after feeding baby Coco or rocking her to sleep, and she would still be holding their daughter as they both slept. One night he had come home late from a gig in the town over and had walked in to see Imelda passed out in an armchair with Coco nestled against her. It was like they had been waiting up for him, and he remembered thinking how lucky he was.  
  
She had been so beautiful… she still was, he thought sleepily. And she was right there, he could reach out and touch her if he could have managed the strength to lift his arms. His eyes closed, then he quickly pulled them open again. He didn’t want to give up that moment just yet, that quiet, sweet moment. But he was so tired, and his eyelids so heavy.  
  
When he opened them again, she was gone.  
  
The surprise of it woke him up more than anything else, and he managed to prop himself up on an arm to better look around, but the small room was empty and quiet. He was alone.  
  
With a surprising amount of effort he pulled himself up, still gazing around and wondering what had happened, and why Imelda might have been there.  
  
Had he dreamt it? It wouldn’t have been the first time he had dreamed of her. And that was confusing…oh.  
  
That was very, very confusing. Had it all been a dream?  
  
He sat up with a groan, his legs dangling off the couch as he hunched over, feeling as sick as a skeleton could.  
  
He counted on his fingers as he went over each memory…  
  
A living boy had arrived in the Land of the Dead and asked for help to find his great-great-grandfather, who was apparently Ernesto. That was weird. And that living boy was actually his great-great-grandson… and Ernesto had poisoned him and stolen his music. Imelda and her family had agreed to help him, which consisted of sneaking into the Sunrise Spectacular show with the help of Frida Kahlo and cross-dressing. There were so many things wrong with that, he just skipped right over it. Then Imelda had gone on stage and sung, in front of hundreds (thousands? It was a big theater, and quite dark), and had smiled at him while he played, just like the old days…  
  
Ah… damn.  
  
Definitely a dream.  
  
He shook his head and laughed, berating himself for actually believing it. It was just one of those kinds of dreams that felt so, so real until one woke up, looked back and could appreciate how ridiculous it was, and it was certainly ridiculous. Why would Ernesto even throw people into a sinkhole? Who does that?  
  
He hesitated at the thought of his old partner… could Ernesto really have poisoned him? Just to steal his music? Quickly enough he brushed that thought aside as mere dream logic. Ernesto had been his best friend, they had known each other their entire lives. He was like a brother, he would never have done that. And in any case, why would Ernesto just have poison laying around? No, it was absurd, and Héctor felt guilty for even thinking it. Some friend he was.  
  
On the plus side, Imelda had been in his dream… had called him the love of her life. But that too was all wrong, and the realization was like the harsh grating of a knife on stone. She hated him, he knew that. Could never forgive him for leaving their family.  
  
Still… he closed his eyes, smiling to think how she had leapt into his arms as if she might have missed him as much as he missed her. It was a wonderful thought. And to think he might have met his own family, someone who was actually proud to be family. If he really did have an ancestor like Miguel out there, that would be incredible. Although the thought of any of his living family being such a die-hard musician was as ludicrous as the rest of it.  
  
Going through the events of the dream, he came to the end and his smile faltered at the recollection of his almost Final Death. He could remember the near-constant tremors, his bones shaking until he couldn’t even stand. It wouldn’t be the first time he dreamt of it, far from it, but never had any dream ever felt like that. It had been so real.  
  
He leaned forward, resting hard on his knees as he recalled that feeling of his whole body vanishing. It had been so harsh and then so peaceful, a slow drifting away, like going to sleep after a very, very long day. When it was his time to go, would it be that easy? Is that what would happen when Coco forgot him? He shivered… he didn’t want to think about how easy it would be. He wasn’t ready to die yet, he wouldn’t disappear without a fight.  
  
Although, he thought absently, that in terms of Final Death it wouldn’t have been so bad. Imelda and her family had been there, and he had been under a wide, open sky, right at sunrise. Usually when he imagined his final moments, he was alone, curled up somewhere dark and cold, and no one would notice or care that he was gone. To think he’d be with Imelda when it happened… he sighed, hanging his head. Well, it was a nice thought.  
  
But in the end, it was only a dream.  
   
He looked down at his hands, thought to how they had glowed, how thin everything had felt. Clutching them into fists, he reminded himself what he had to focus on. Coco was forgetting him… and he was running out of time.  
  
Taking a steadying breath, he hoisted himself off the couch and swayed on the spot, struggling not to fall back because he might not be able to get up again. Ideally, he would have kept sleeping, but at the moment his goal was to get out of here before someone found him. If asked what he was doing there, he didn’t have a good answer. Which was… highly disconcerting.  
  
Just what had he done the night before?  
  
He found his hat on a desk and clapped it on before cautiously peering out the door, but there wasn’t another soul in sight. Stepping out, he heard voices coming from the right, and so he went left, his bones creaking as he walked. When he got back to his place, he was going to sleep for a week. That is, assuming he lasted that long.  
  
But before he could find his way out, he got turned around and soon found himself standing in the middle of a theater, staring around and wondering if he hadn’t quite woken up yet.  
  
“Oh, this is very confusing,” he muttered, squinting at the darkened stage.  
  
He stood there, hands on hips, and tried to think of a reason why the whole place looked exactly like in his dream. It was deeply unsettling, the only real difference being that the candlelit pathways were dark, and the seats at his back were empty.  
  
He shook his head, pushing away the dream, the lingering thought of Imelda. He turned to leave and immediately ran into a mike stand, and for a moment he desperately flailed to catch it as it swung around, before it crashed to the ground with a loud bang. He grimaced as the noise echoed, holding his arms tight to his chest. Maybe no one had heard it…  
  
“Someone up there?” a familiar voice shouted from the orchestra pit.  
  
Héctor leaned over, peering into the dark space. “Eh? Gustavo? That you?”  
  
The fellow musician came into view, gaping at him.  
  
“Chorizo?” he said incredulously.  
  
Héctor sighed at the old nickname and found he was not in the mood to be laughed at. “You know what, I’m just gonna go—“  
  
“Whoah, whoah, not so fast!” Gustavo called out. There was the sound of a chair scraping and then he pulled himself onto the stage. “What the hell, man? Where you been? We’ve been looking all over for you!”  
  
Héctor stared at him for a long, long moment, a number of questions floating through his hazy mind. Finally he opened his mouth and simply asked, “Why?”  
   
“What do you mean, why? We were all worried! Last we saw, you were lying out there before that big alebrije came out and scared the skin off of us. And then you were just up and gone.”  
   
Héctor stared, and Gustavo stared back expectantly.  
   
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Héctor said.  
   
“Seriously, man? I mean last night! Or this morning, same thing.”  
  
“Last night?” Héctor repeated. It was stunning how stupid he felt.  
  
“Yeah, it’s all anyone’s been talking about. And that’s not much of an exaggeration, you know. Everyone wants to know who you are now. I mean, you almost died!”  
  
It was a testament to how tired and confused he was, because Héctor actually glanced down through his own empty ribcage, the familiar yellowed bones, and then looked up again.  
  
“But, I’m already—“  
  
“I mean you almost died again!” Gustavo said impatiently. “Come on! Don’t you remember? De la Cruz tried to murder that kid, you saved him, and then you were almost Forgotten.”  
   
“What?” Héctor said, blinking hard. “No, but… but that was a dream…” He put a hand to his head, suddenly feeling faint. It couldn’t have been real.  
  
“Weren’t no dream, amigo.”  
  
“But… no.” Héctor shook his head, throwing his hands out. “No, no, no. That was definitely a dream. It had to have been.”  
  
Because if it wasn’t…  
  
Gustavo chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “It was crazy, all right, but it happened. The whole thing was playing right up there, we all saw it.” He pointed to two huge screens on stage that stood black and empty.  
  
“That’s… that can’t be…” He staggered back and Gustavo was at his side, steadying him.  
  
“Hey, you ok? Maybe you should be taking it easy. I’ve never seen anyone disappear like that and still be standing. Swore for a moment you were completely gone.”  
  
“I disappeared?”  
  
“Yeah. You really don’t remember?”  
  
“I’m not sure,” he muttered, trying to think, but found it was akin to stumbling around in a dark room and banging into every possible obstacle. “So… it was all real?”  
  
He stared around the stage, trying to sort out what exactly that meant. Thinking about Miguel, or Imelda, or his family was too much at the moment, so he settled on something smaller that his mind could actually grasp.  
  
“Then… Ernesto really did poison me.” For the second time he felt that emotional punch. His best friend had murdered him. For his music. Because he had wanted to go home.  
  
“I… thought you just choked on something,” Gustavo said uncertainly.  
  
“No. No, he… he poisoned my drink,” Héctor said, the memory of that night flickering in his mind. “I was supposed to go home. It was a toast to our friendship.” The irony made it hurt all the worse.  
  
Neither spoke, and he could almost feel Gustavo growing more uncomfortable beside him. A small part of his mind noted how his infamous nickname of Chorizo was now moot. And that it wasn’t funny anymore; not that it was ever that funny to begin with.  
  
Then his mind was able to comprehend something much more important.  
  
“Wait… if it was all real, then Miguel must have been real, too. That means I met my great-great-grandson.”  
  
“The living kid? Yeah, he was here all right. But you didn’t tell us he was your family when we met earlier at rehearsal."  
  
“I… didn’t know.” He was hit by the absurd fact he had been running around with his great-great-grandson all night and had no idea. Miguel had thought _Ernesto_ was his ancestor.  
  
He needed to sit down.  
  
There was a finger snapping in his face, and he blinked to see Gustavo staring worriedly at him.  
   
“Hey, hey! Don’t start fading on me now. Maybe you should take it easy. You got family around or something?”  
   
“No! No family.” He shook his head, lurching back at the thought. Did he have family again? He had no idea, but in the end, it wasn’t up to him. And the idea of family was far, far too big of a concept for his mind to handle.  
   
“What about that woman?” Gustavo went on. “The singer, you know? Llorona? She was with you when it happened. She’s not family?”  
   
“I’m uh… not sure.” He recalled Imelda sitting beside him when he first woke and wondered what that meant. Did it mean anything? Was it even real?  
   
His head swam, and he had to blink away a sudden wave of dizziness.  
   
“I’m just… I’m gonna go…. somewhere,” he muttered, one hand on his head as he staggered away, feeling even worse than before. He wasn’t sure if it was his body, his mind or his heart that ached more.

  
“You gonna be ok, amigo?” Gustavo called out.  
   
“Yeah... I’ll be fine.”  
   
Probably.  
   
He desperately needed to think.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to 'Imelda-Riveras' on tumblr for her help beta'ing this chapter!
> 
> This whole thing was such a blast to write. Initially, when I first wrote this story, this didn't happen, but once I started going down this path it flowed very naturally. I mean, it is pretty absurd, and Hector isn't fully recovered yet from his ordeal.
> 
> Really, if Héctor actually woke up and thought back to what happened during the movie, he’d just be thinking, ‘what the hell??’
> 
> Feedback always appreciated, but you guys are already awesome!


	4. A Second Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imelda finds Héctor and they finally talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note about Mexican weddings… traditionally they have an after party (tornaboda) lasting until early morning: so there’s the night of the wedding and the ‘wedding night’ (wink wink). This comes up, I promise.

After talking with Gustavo and stumbling away from the stage, Héctor didn't pay attention to where his feet led him. Thus he was mildly surprised when he found himself standing outside in a broad open space… exactly where he had been at sunrise. He dragged a hand down his face and wondered what was wrong with his life. Or death… he mentally hit himself for pondering semantics when he was that tired.  
  
But the place was quiet and empty, and that was the most important thing. There was a cool evening breeze as he walked further out, the sky darkening to a dusky blue. He must have slept all through the day, which was alarming on top of everything else.  
  
Against the horizon there was a white glow hinting at the coming moonrise, a pale mirror of that morning’s cresting sun. Going to the very edge, he put one foot up on the parapet and leaned out over the long, long drop. He thought to how Miguel had nearly died there a day ago, and he hurriedly stepped away, turning and looking at the place where he had nearly disappeared.  
  
It was a lot to take in. With a rattle of bones he sank down onto the parapet. His head swam and he put his hand over his eyes, hunching forward and tried to remember. It was more difficult than he would have liked as he fought through the weight of exhaustion, the ever-present need to close his eyes and sleep. Slowly, eventually, he came to terms that the past night had not, in fact, been a very strange dream, although it took a bit of self-convincing.  
  
He had almost died. Again. He could remember in excruciating detail: the tremors, the sense of nothingness, of letting go…  
  
A shiver rippled through him at how close he had come to disappearing for good. It was just short of a miracle he could have come back after being an inch from the end. He knew well enough that the Final Death was mysterious: hard to predict or control, impossible to fight off forever. However, one could fight it, could linger a little while longer, or one could accept it and go peacefully, on their own terms.  
  
He had very, very nearly let go. Except he had heard Imelda’s voice. She had told him not to leave, and so he didn’t. That had made the difference, he was sure of it. He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers one by one and noticed a change. Since waking up he hadn’t felt a single golden glow. He closed his eyes and felt within him… the feeling of his life fraying wasn’t there anymore.  
  
He was still there. Coco still remembered him, which meant Miguel must have found her in time. Incredible… he had met his great-great-grandson, someone who was happy, even proud, to call him family.  
  
And Imelda... he closed his eyes and smiled at the thought of her jumping into his arms.  
  
She had called him the love of her life.  
  
He wasn’t being forgotten. What was more… he put a hand to his chin, and realized that if Coco remembered him, she could pass down his story to Miguel. Which meant, then… that when she died, Miguel would keep his memory alive.  
  
He would get to see Coco again, he realized with dawning wonder. Not just see her- be with her! He would get to be with his daughter again!  
  
A smile split his face as unbelievable joy surged up through him, and for a moment he looked around, hoping there might be someone he could shake and tell them the good news. Instead he looked down at his hands and clutched them tight.  
  
He was there. He was still there and Miguel was safe and Coco remembered him and Imelda had called him the love of his life!  
  
His body almost thrummed with sudden energy as he turned and leapt up onto the wall, looking down at all of the Land of the Dead as it shimmered with a million dazzling lights. He threw his arms out wide and yelled out a long, loud grito, feeling it surge up from deep within him.  
  
“She remembered me!” he shouted, gasping at the utter relief he felt, feeling more alive than he had in decades.  
  
“Héctor!” A woman’s voice called out.  
  
“Ah!”  
  
He yelped and jumped a foot in the air and swung about, nearly falling off twice before he calmed down enough to see Imelda hurrying towards him. With a jumbling trip he got off the wall and took off his hat.  
  
“Ah… yes?”  
  
Imelda rolled her eyes, slowing as she came nearer. “Typical. I leave for five minutes to take care of Pepita and you vanish. Almost gave me a heart attack.” She gazed at him, her face inscrutable before it softened a little. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“Me? Uh, good.” He shrugged his shoulders with a light clatter. “Still here, anyway. Which is saying a lot.”  
  
She nodded, her lips pressed tight together. He opened his mouth to confirm with her that it had all actually been real, then on closer look noticed the hidden look of distress.  
  
“Are you all right?” he asked. The question startled her so much she stumbled back, blinking at him before she collected herself, one hand moving to brush back a nonexistent stray hair.  
  
“I… I’m fine. We’re all fine,” she said with a distracted wave of her hand. ”I’m just glad Miguel made it home safe. And... that you’re ok.”  
  
“Thanks to you,” he murmured, the words spoken before he had fully thought it through.  
  
She looked up in surprise, and Héctor realized she might not have pieced together what she had done for him.  
  
“I heard you,” he said, not meeting her eyes, almost ashamed to admit it. “I heard your voice when everything was fading. If it hadn’t been for you… I probably wouldn’t be here.”  
  
He closed his eyes, feeling very small, and again fatigue pressed down on him, overcoming his brief surge of adrenaline. “You stayed for me when I needed you. Thank you.” The words were bitter on his tongue. It felt wrong to thank her for staying, when he hadn’t done the same for her.  
  
“I… I was afraid I was going to lose you again,” she said, almost reluctantly.  
  
Looking at her, he was acutely reminded of how much pain he must have caused her, and that he would never be able to take that back.  
  
“Imelda… I’m sorry.” He sighed, feeling the same shame whenever he thought of this, his great mistake. “You were right, I never should have left Santa Cecilia. I should have been there for you, for Coco. And I tried. I really tried to come home, but—“  
  
“I know.”  
  
He stopped short at those two words, at the sight of her hard expression. His next words died in his throat.  
  
She already knew all this, he reminded himself. She knew what had happened… and it didn’t matter. Of course it didn’t, he thought bitterly. He had left them, and that was unforgivable.  
  
“Right, right…” he muttered, fiddling with the edge of his straw hat, and again felt the same sense of exhaustion hit him like a sickness. He was too tired for this. True, he had hurt her, but she couldn’t understand how much she was hurting him, even then. As much as he had hoped for this chance, for this moment to simply talk with her, for her to listen… he suddenly couldn’t find it in himself to be put through that pain again. Not then. Not when he was so weary, so vulnerable.  
  
He needed to be alone.  
  
Steeling himself, he took a deep breath and tried not to think about how sick he felt. Or how he was walking away from the chance to talk to his wife after so many years.  
  
“I’ll… I’ll just be off, then. But I just wanted to say, to tell you…”  
  
He hesitated. Wanted to what? Apologize? Thank her? Tell her just how much he missed her, missed all of it? That despite everything, he still loved her…  
  
His heart ached.  
  
“It was good to hear you sing again,” he said.  
  
Her head jerked up at that, but he couldn’t bear to see her expression, wasn’t sure if he was allowed to even say that anymore, yet it seemed safer that admitting how much he missed her. Without another glance he stepped past her, head low and his smile dying. There was an overwhelming urge to go lie down and not think about anything for a long, long time.  
  
“Wait,” Imelda called out.  
  
He stilled, not turning around, his heart tightening.  
  
“I know you tried to come home,” she said. “And I’m sorry.”  
  
He didn’t move, thinking that he must have heard wrong. Slowly he turned, looking back at her. She met his gaze then looked away.  
  
“All these years, you were never able to see your daughter. Because of me. I tore you from our photo, the one with Coco, the one that was on our family ofrenda. I… I was just so furious that you left, I couldn’t bear to look at it. I couldn’t bear to even think about you.”  
  
He winced at the thought of his own wife hating him so much, for all that time.  
  
“I’m sorr—“  
  
“Don’t,” she said sharply, putting up a hand to stop him. He held his breath as she sighed, lowering her head. “I should have trusted you. I should have kept you in our lives. All these years… I’ve made you _suffer_ ,” she bit out, looking pained.  
  
He reach towards her but pulled back, hardly able to comprehend they were actually having that conversation, but knew he didn’t want her placing that burden on herself. The very last thing he wanted to do was cause her more pain.

“That wasn’t your fault,” he said. “You couldn’t have known.”

She shook her head. “I could have tried harder to look for you.”  
  
“You would have never found me,” he said gently, sure it was the truth. His bones were likely in some unmarked grave, or thrown into a ditch.  
  
“I was your wife. I _knew_ you, and still I thought—“  
  
“I don’t blame you, Imelda.” She looked up at him, as if deciding whether to believe him. He smiled, shook his head. “You… I’m proud of you. I’m grateful. You raised an amazing family, I’ve met enough of them to know that. And you did it all on your own. That’s….”  
  
He wanted to say more but his throat was suddenly too tight to speak. She had created a beautiful, amazing family… without him. He was proud, overjoyed for her, but it didn’t stop the pain. It was a family he didn’t belong to anymore.  
  
“You… you were there when our… when your family needed you. You raised our daughter, and she’s incredible. I’ll never stop being grateful for that.”  
  
He rolled his fingers over his thumbs, thinking over all of the things he had wanted to tell her, years worth of memories and thoughts and he couldn’t find the words to speak.  
  
“Coco never stopped loving you,” Imelda said softly.  
  
He straightened, his breath catching as he stared at her.  
  
“When she was young, I would always catch her singing at night,” Imelda went on, “always the same song, that lullaby of yours. I kept hoping she would outgrow it, but she didn’t. After a while, I didn’t try to stop her.”  
  
Héctor stared, amazed. Coco had remembered his song..  
  
“It was our song,” he whispered, and thought back through the years of keeping his promise. “It was my promise. I would sing it here, almost every night. It kept her memory close. I always hoped that she might be able to hear it.”  
  
He fumbled with his hands, and said, “How was she? When you left, I mean. What… was she like?”  
  
“She was good. Her hair was starting to gray when I passed away, but she was often smiling. She had married a man she loved, had two beautiful daughters of her own. She was happy.”  
  
“That’s… that’s good,” he said, nodding as he let that sink in. He had already known most of it, but still… she was happy.  
  
There was a pause, and Imelda spoke again.  
  
“You know, even when she was starting to get gray hair, she still wore it in twin braids, just like she was young. Once when she was little I tied it in a bun, just to change it up. She hated it so much she tried to cut it off. I found her in the kitchen holding a knife and a little pocket mirror trying to get the angle right.”  
  
He choked, torn between laughing and crying, and had to look away from a moment. In his mind he could see it, her little braids tied with ribbons…  
  
“And no matter how hard I tried, she was always dancing and chasing songs. She had music in her veins, same as you.”  
  
He looked up at that, hardly able to breathe. His daughter had loved music? A laugh escaped him, marveling at the thought of it… his daughter took after him. The same rush of joy rushed through him, settling to a warm heat in his core like a heartache.  
  
Imelda was watching him with a knowing smirk, and he tried to school his face to a more neutral expression.  
  
“So… things have worked out, more or less,” he said. “You have a loving family, and our great-great grandson is ok. Maybe he’ll even…” Héctor was going to say he might bring music back to the family, but didn’t want to push his luck. “He’ll tell our stories. And, despite it all, we’re still here.”  
  
“Sí, we’re still here,” she agreed, then looked him up and down. “But some of us, just barely.”  
  
“Eh, close enough.” He shrugged, grinning at her. And for a moment their eyes locked on each other, and he found himself unconsciously leaning closer…  
  
Then Imelda turned and took a step forward towards the edge of the parapet, her gaze upwards.  
  
“It’s a beautiful moon tonight,” she said, surprising him.  
  
Héctor hesitated before following, standing beside her and also looking up at the night sky. “Y-yeah…” he agreed, although thought it a poor change of subject.  
  
“You know, I was thinking about our wedding night,” Imelda remarked off-handedly.  
  
Héctor brought a hand to his chest and gawked at her, mouth hanging open in shock. She turned, took one look at his face, and glared.  
  
“I didn’t mean that part!”  
  
“Hey, hey, you brought it up! What was I supposed to think?”  
  
“Obviously not that!” she said, flustered. “And will you stop looking so scandalized? You’re my husband, for goodness sake.”  
  
He couldn’t help the grin on his face.  
  
“Well, which night are you talking about? I mean, there was our wedding night and then there was our _wedding night_ —“  
  
She smacked his arm and he couldn’t help but laugh. Then he looked at her, felt his face hurt from smiling so wide. He had to put a hand over his mouth to control himself.  
  
“And just what is so funny?” Imelda said, crossing her arms. “Honestly…”  
  
“It’s nothing, really. It’s just…” He hesitated, not sure how to express just how happy he was in that moment. “I missed this.”  
  
He had to hold back more words, knowing he couldn’t explain how much he missed just being with her. Talking, teasing, laughing. How he had waited years hoping he might be with her again.  
  
“You’re not the only one,” she muttered, looking embarrassed. It was like someone had taken hold of his heart and squeezed tight. She looked at him, tried to hide her own smile, and faced forward again.  
  
“What I was trying to say is it reminds me of our wedding,” she paused, sighed, and rolled her hand, “the day after the wedding, I mean.”  
  
“Day after the wedding? But we didn’t do anything, we just slept. Oh… wait, I think I know what you’re getting at.” He brought his hand to his chin, pondered for a moment and then shook his head. “Never mind, no I don’t.”  
  
“ _Por Dios_ ,” she muttered, and it was so endearing, so achingly familiar, Héctor bit his lip to try to contain his grin.  
  
She looked at him, almost beseeching. “After the wedding, after the reception and all-night festivities, you remember? We stayed out until sunrise.”  
  
_Sunrise?_ Héctor straightened, as something began to click. He glanced to the horizon, where only hours earlier the sun had risen just as he was fading.  
  
Imelda went on.  
  
“We could barely walk straight when we went to our new home. I was so tired I could barely take my shoes off. And then, as you said, we slept for the whole day, once our families decided to finally leave us alone. And in the evening I woke up, looked outside and saw a crescent moon rising.”  
  
A shiver crept through his bones. He looked up, saw again the rising white crescent in the sky, and felt what was almost a touch of magic in the air.  
  
Huh…  
  
“That night, I remember thinking it was the beginning of spending the rest of our lives together. For better and for worse, in sickness and health…”  
  
“Until death do us part,” he muttered, and frowned at those words. Death had indeed parted them. Was she saying that they were no longer truly husband and wife, after death? But when he glanced at her from the corner of his eye, she was smiling.  
  
“Now we’re both dead. And we’re both here. Maybe… it’s time to start a new life again. A second chance.”  
  
He turned to face her, hardly able to believe what he was hearing, almost afraid to hope for it after so long.  
  
“Imelda…”  
  
“If that’s something you’d still want, anyway,” she said with a shrug.  
  
“Of course! I… I’d like that. A second chance… to be a part of your family again.”  
  
“They’re your family, too,” she said softly, her voice bittersweet. Then her face changed and took on a more pensive look. “It also means I’ll need to change some of our family rules. Like no musicians.”  
  
He chuckled at that. “I suppose you could always make me an exception. Besides, I’m not quite the musician I used to be, I gave it up years ago. At least until last night, I mean. It’s fine. I know you have a strict no music policy.”  
  
She frowned at that, tapping her foot on the ground before she seemed to make up her mind about something. “There’s one more thing I need to do. Wait here.”  
  
Héctor watched her leave, perplexed but trying his best to follow along with everything. He turned toward the rising moon, wondering if this was indeed a second chance. Could she really mean it? Thinking back through all they had been through, it seemed too good to hope for. But he was more than willing to work together and figure it out.  
  
He closed his eyes, breathed in deep, and for once thought how lucky he was.  
  
Soon he heard familiar footsteps, and turned to see Imelda striding forward with her hands hidden behind her back and a cautious smile on her face.  
  
“I’ve been thinking… that perhaps it’s time to bring music back to our family.” He blinked in shock, then grew more shocked when she pulled out a guitar from behind her dress. He gaped as she held it out to him. “And we can start… with _this_.”  
  
He leaned away, pulling his hands up as if afraid to touch it. His eyes moved to study her face, but she only looked back expectantly. With shaking hands he reached out and took it, holding it gingerly.  
  
She smiled. A real, warm smile at him, and his breath left him a rush. He missed her smile. He had missed her so, so much.  
  
“Come now, _musico_ ,” she said, grinning at him and leaning against the parapet. “Aren’t you going to play?”  
  
A small laugh escaped him. Glancing down, he plucked a few tentative chords.  
  
“Does this mean you’ll sing again?” he asked with a cocked eyebrow.  
  
“Don’t push your luck,” she said, but her tone lacked any harshness. He gave a little shrug as he tuned it just a touch, more than happy just to be with her.  
  
Sitting down on the parapet, he began to play as the moon continued to rise. She sat close beside him, and she listened. As the music played, he could barely comprehend the joy in his heart, the unbelievable hope he felt.  
  
Maybe things were finally starting to look up.

 


	5. Some Things Never Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twins go in search of their sister (and maybe their brother-in-law, too)

The Rivera family had returned to their home that morning following Dia de los Muertos, and all unanimously agreed to keep the shop closed for the day. Although it wasn’t so much a spoken agreement, as vague affirmative mutterings as they each walked, shuffled, or strode to their respective bedrooms, the drama of the night catching up fast.  
When Felipe woke up again, he wasn’t sure if the sky outside the window was darkening or lightening, but he had the feeling he had overslept. There was motion from the other side of the room as Oscar also shifted in his bed. 

  
"What time is it?" Oscar muttered, sitting up and looking around.  
  
"Dunno… must be late.”  
  
“Is it still today?”  
  
“Better than tomorrow,” Felipe muttered as he also got up, rolling his shoulders for good measure.  
When they went downstairs they found the rest of their family awake and up, but no sign of Imelda. Or Héctor, for that matter. However, Héctor’s presence was harder to pinpoint the significance of since he was expressly forbidden from entering their property.   
  
"Imelda never showed up?" Oscar asked.  
  
"No," Julio said. "And it's already nightfall."  
  
“Maybe she's still stuck at the theater,” Rosita said, looking out the shop window and twisting her fingers. “Or what if something terrible happened?”  
  
“I’ll go find her,” Felipe said, making the others look at him in surprise. “I’m sure she’s fine, but just in case. It might be that Héctor hasn’t woken up yet.”  
  
Oscar went out with him, of course. Although if he was honest Felipe had been hoping for a little time alone, time to think. Certainly, there was a great deal to think about after all that had happened. The brothers were unusually quiet as they walked through the bustling streets, the gold-yellow streetlights shining overhead and faint music could be heard from the buildings they passed. Felipe turned his head as he thought he caught a strain of  _La Llorona_ but it might have just been his imagination.  
  
"So..." Oscar said, bringing him back to the present.  
  
"So, things might get interesting,” Felipe said.  
  
"Think this changes the house rules?"  
  
"You mean no music?"  
  
"Or no musicians?"  
  
"Or no Héctor?"  
  
They fell into an uncomfortable silence. They both knew Héctor, but that had been years and years ago. A young, scrappy musician who had swept their sister off her feet, despite the odds. But the last they knew, he had run out on his family, leaving their sister alone with a young child, their precious niece. For decades he hadn’t been allowed to be a part of their family. But they knew the truth finally, and it was up to Imelda whether it was enough to let him back into the family.  
  
“Everything might be different,” Felipe muttered, talking to himself as much as his brother.  
  
"Up in the air,” Oscar said in the same tone of voice.  
  
"Up for grabs."  
  
"Unknown variables."  
  
“Our brother-in-law…” Felipe said, the words strange after so long.  
  
"I hope he's all right," Oscar said in a low voice.  
  
Felipe looked at him, curious at the sudden hardness in his voice. “He was fine when we left,” he reminded him.  
  
“I wouldn’t call that ‘fine,’” Oscar said with a glare. “He wasn’t even moving.”  
  
“At least Imelda’s with him,” Felipe countered. "Hey, you think this means she's forgiven him, then?"  
  
"If she hasn't, she will, given time. I can't believe he was murdered and we had no idea."  
  
"It explains why we never heard from Ernesto, though. The bastard."  
  
Oscar quickened his pace suddenly, and Felipe had to rush forward to catch up. There was a cold, tight look on his face, a flash of pain.  
  
“We should have listened to him when he came to talk.” Oscar clenched his fists. “We… I never even gave him a chance. Maybe we could have avoided all this pain…”  
  
“Would it have really changed anything?”  
  
Oscar sighed, but didn’t answer. They were quiet the rest of the way to the transportation hub, the place busy that evening, so they were forced to stand in the tight-packed trolley as it began to move.  
  
Thoughts ran through his mind as Felipe gazed out the visible sliver of window to the dark city, alive with a million lights. Everything still seemed so normal, it was amazing that so much has changed. What would happen to their family? What was Imelda going to do? It was obvious that despite her long, long history of hating him, there was still a spark between them. He thought to that morning, watching her hold him as his body seemed to burn alive with that strange golden light, her begging for him to stay, to hold on. He had never seen Imelda like that, and there was almost a feeling of guilt for having watched such an intimate moment. But Héctor hadn’t disappeared. Surely he was fine, given time. He had to be.  
  
There was a nudge into his ribs, and he was surprised to see Oscar giving him a strong look and nodding towards the back of the car. Felipe shook his head in confusion. Oscar gave another strong jerk of his head and mouthed, “Listen!”  
  
He did so, and heard a loud voice, audible over the vague chatter.  
  
“…didn’t steal anyone’s music! Ernesto wrote all his own songs, you must have heard wrong.”  
  
“It’s true,” An older looking skeleton chimed in, leaning on a cane. “That’s what the living boy said. And that was before Ernesto tried to kill him, I should mention. My sister was in the audience, and she heard quite clearly- de la Cruz murdered that other fellow and stole his songs.”  
  
“Has anyone found him yet?”  
  
“Who, the almost-Forgotten guy? Not a word.”  
  
“People are saying he might have disappeared after all,” a third voice said. “Poor thing, but hardly surprising.”  
   
Felipe looked to Oscar with wide eyes. They were talking about their family, about Héctor. A bunch of strangers were discussing their brother-in-law.  
  
Once Felipe was able to think past how surreal that was, he wondered if it was true. What if Héctor really had been Forgotten? He felt a chill upon his heart at the idea of being Forgotten; it was something he knew of but had yet to face in any meaningful way. All he really understood that when it happened, the spirit simply disappeared, as permanent and mysterious as death after life.  
  
Could Héctor be gone? He wondered. Is that why Imelda had not returned? Could Héctor have been Forgotten, and she wasn’t ready to be with her family?  
  
He avoided looking at Oscar or anyone else as those thoughts flitted through his mind, and wondered what they would do if it was true. He found himself desperately wishing that it was just rumors, that Héctor would be all right. And Imelda.  
  
When the trolley came to a stop they slipped away as discreetly as they could and headed towards the theater, the building rising high above the surrounding buildings, easy to follow.  
  
"Well..." Oscar said in a low voice as they walked.  
  
"Right..."  
  
"Shit."  
  
"Héctor’s famous." Felipe wasn’t sure how he felt about that, was still stunned it was true.  
  
"I'm sure it'll die down,” Oscar said, but without much certainty. “Eventually... God, I hope he’s all right.”  
  
They didn’t speak much more the rest of the way, each glancing up at the dark sign proclaiming the ‘Sunrise Spectacular!’ It had more than a touch of irony about it.  
   
The theater was deserted to their great relief, with no sign of a single fan or reporter. Felipe had been nervous the place might still be swarming with other curious skeletons, all eager to find out what exactly had happened that night. Fortunately, they got in easy enough, and soon found themselves backstage, before making their way to the room they had last left their sister and Héctor.  
  
Oscar knocked on the door. “Imelda? It’s me and Oscar. Are you in there?”  
   
They each pressed their skull to the door, but couldn’t hear a sound.  
   
“Maybe they’re sleeping,” Felipe muttered.  
   
Oscar knocked louder, then turned the handle, finding it unlocked. “We’re coming in.”  
   
He cracked the door open, both peering in to find that the room was empty, not a soul in sight.  
  
"Now what?" Felipe asked while they checked around, as if they might find them hiding behind a desk or under a vase. No luck.   
  
"I suppose they could have gone back home and we just missed them,” Oscar said, but without any real confidence.  
  
Felipe tried to imagine the two of them sitting side by side on a trolley together, and couldn’t quite picture it. Although, he thought, if Imelda had waited for him to wake up, they may have simply gone their separate ways and she had gone home by herself. Would Héctor have been in any condition to leave on his own? He had no idea.  
  
"Would she have taken him to a doctor?" Felipe asked, although he wasn’t sure if there was anything a doctor could do to help.  
  
"What if he..." Oscar began to say, then hesitated.  
  
"What?"  
  
"What if he really was Forgotten?"  
  
They met each other's eyes, a nervous look shared between them. It was a reasonable guess, considering how they had left him last. If so, what then?  
  
Together, they glanced to the sofa with the chair still pulled up beside it, imagining what might have happened.  
  
Oscar stepped forward and eyed the fabric, while Felipe ran a finger along it.  
  
“No dust. That’s a good sign, right?”  
  
"Hopefully. Let’s look around, maybe we can find someone with answers.” Oscar went out the door, looking both ways down the empty hallway.  
  
“I’ll go left, you take right,” Felipe said, stepping out and pointing a bony finger each way as Oscar shut the door behind them.  
  
“Meet at the stage in… ten minutes?”  
  
“Ten it is. Suerte!” Felipe called over his shoulder, taking off at a brisk pace down the dim-lit corridor. Although if he were being honest, he wasn’t sure they’d be able to find anyone. So far the theater had seemed deserted, with no sign of Imelda, Héctor, or anyone else. Soon enough he found the door where they had come in that morning, being ushered in by Frida Kahlo of all people. The handle turned with a clang as he was greeted by a cold night breeze.  
  
Then he heard laughter.  
  
Peeking out the door he found them, sitting side by side on the parapet and looking closer than he thought he would ever see them again. Héctor held a guitar in his lap while Imelda held a hand to her mouth, shaking her head in apparent disbelief while Héctor looked faintly proud of himself. It was such a familiar scene it was almost painful. It was strange, almost dream-like, to think they could still talk and laugh as if the past decades hadn’t happened, as if Imelda hadn’t spent years cursing him and his memory.  
  
Despite the small twinge of satisfaction Felipe felt to see them happy and together, there was a darker emotion as well. Sure he was glad Héctor was all right, but he couldn’t forget that this was also the man who broke his sister’s heart.  
   
He stepped forward and called out, “Having a late night?” making them both jump.  
  
“W-what are you doing here?” Imelda said nervously, rising to her feet and smoothing out her skirt. Héctor stood as well, if much slower, apparently not quite recovered from his ordeal.  
  
“You never showed up, and we were getting worried about you,” Felipe said, looking to Imelda. Then he gave a quick glance to Héctor as if to say ‘and maybe also a tiny bit worried about you.’  
  
Héctor gave a nervous little laugh. “I, uh, guess it is pretty late. I should probably go put this back,” he said, lifting the guitar.  
  
“Give it here,” Imelda said, putting out a hand. “You don’t know where I even got it from. I’ll put it back.”  
  
She left the two of them standing there, silent and uncertain. It had been a long time since they’d last spoken. Despite all that they had learned, Felipe wasn’t ready to trust him, nor could he forgive him for abandoning his family all those years ago.  
  
The silence lengthened, and Felipe glanced over at Héctor, who watched Imelda slip away through the door. Felipe had never been Héctor’s biggest fan, even as kids, but then he wasn’t much a fan of anyone who courted Imelda, threatening to take away what little remained of their family. Oscar, on the other hand, had been a touch more free-spirited, and decidedly nicer to Héctor. At the moment, Héctor was probably wishing it had been Oscar to find them, not him, glancing over at him with a tentative smile.  
  
“So… Felipe,” Héctor said after enough moments had passed to make it sufficiently awkward. “Good to see you again.”  
  
Felipe lifted his eyebrows, surprised Héctor had recognized him. A lot of people had trouble telling him and Oscar apart, and that had only gotten worse as skeletons.  
  
“Good guess?” he asked, crossing his arms.  
  
“What? Oh, nah. I just remember that look too well,” Héctor said with a dismissive wave of his hand.  
  
“What look?”  
  
“The one that says ‘don’t mess with my sister or you’ll be missing an arm come morning.’ That look. It’s hard to forget.”  
  
Felipe laughed, but couldn’t argue with it. “I took my role of brother seriously.”  
   
Héctor nodded. “Ay, I know. She’s lucky to have you. Both of you.”  
  
“Can’t say the same about you,” Felipe said, and was immediately shocked at himself. Where had that come from? Héctor looked stunned as well, blinking at him for a moment before looking down.  
  
“I know—“ he began to say, but Felipe cut him off.  
  
“No, you don’t,” he said in a low voice, wondering where all this anger was coming from, but then again, there had been a quite a few years of resentment built up. “You can’t possibly know because you weren’t there.”  
  
Héctor jerked back as if he’d been slapped, then looked down, ashamed. In a low, voice he said, “You’re right. I wasn’t there for them.”  
  
Felipe bit back his next words, or he might start shouting. That it was too late for regret. That he could do nothing to change all the hurt he has caused with his absence. That he wasn’t there when his family needed them. Those accusations burned in his chest, threatening to creep up his throat, but he held them back, instead watching Héctor, not looking at him.  
  
Héctor sighed, a low, painful sound. “You know… I’ve sometimes wondered, or thought that… that maybe she would have been better if she had married someone else. Maybe she would have been happier with another man.”  
  
There was a long, miserable, unbearable silence between them. Neither spoke, because what could one say to that? Felipe wondered if Héctor was regretting those words as much as he was.  
  
Then he frowned. Was it true? Possibly. Perhaps almost certainly, he reasoned. Surely she could have been happier with another man, one who would have stayed and helped raise Coco, who wouldn’t have left her alone for so many years.  
  
But the thought of Imelda falling in love with someone else was so  _wrong_. Certainly she had had a number of suitors, even after Héctor had left and she was an almost-widow with a young daughter. But she had never truly looked at any other man beside the one standing beside him. No one else could make her smile like he did, or bring forth such joy.  
  
“You might be right,” Felipe finally said, making Héctor look up, pain flashing across his face. “Maybe she could have found another man, certainly others tried hard enough. But she never looked as happy as she did with you. As much as it… pains me to admit.”  
  
Héctor was speechless.  
  
“Certainly she looked happy enough when I walked up here,” Felipe continued with a teasing grin.  
  
That finally startled a reaction out of him.  
  
“Wait a minute,” Héctor said, trying and failing to look reproachful. “Did you do that on purpose?”  
  
“What, interrupting you two? I would never,” he said in a lofty voice. There was a pause, and then they were both laughing.  
  
When they had been young, much younger and still with skin on their bones, Felipe had caught them more than once as Héctor attempted to court Imelda. Héctor had once said he had a natural talent for finding them, always at the wrong moment.  
  
“What’s so funny?” Imelda said suspiciously as she walked up. Oscar was close behind her and caught Felipe’s eye with a questioning look. Felipe just grinned and shrugged. He could explain later.  
  
Héctor just shook his head, his laughter dying down. “Nothing, nothing. Ready to go?” he said to Imelda, then glanced at Felipe and Oscar. “I mean… at least I could walk you down from, uh, wherever this is.”  
  
Felipe considered mentioning how unnecessary that was but didn’t say anything. Clearly, Imelda was not yet ready to say goodbye. Together they found an outside stairwell, although it was unlit, and the railings slick with dew. Oscar went first, then Imelda, with Héctor close behind, and Felipe last, all keeping hold of the handrail as they clambered down into the shadows.  
  
Yet, even in the dark, Felipe noticed how badly Héctor was walking, his leg bone popping out with every step. But once they reached the bottom he noticed how careful Héctor was about hiding it, looking as nonchalant as his nervousness would allow.  
  
Coming to a brightly lit street corner, they all paused and Felipe wondered if Imelda would invite Héctor back to the house. But she didn’t make any such invitation, and instead Oscar was the first to speak.  
   
“Are you really going to be all right getting back?” he asked.  
  
“Oh, I’ll be fine. I feel great now!” Héctor threw his arms wide and then winced, which did nothing to convince them.  
  
“You’re not even walking straight,” Felipe pointed out.  
  
“Oh, that? That’s normal, don’t worry about that. It’s not that far to go,” Héctor said with an exaggerated wave of his hand.  
  
“Don’t you live in Shantytown?” Imelda said. Felipe raised his eyebrow, knowing that it was on the other side of the city.  
  
Héctor grimaced, leaning back. “Ahhh, well… it doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine.”  
  
Felipe glanced at his sister and found she was frowning hard at him.  
  
“Are you sure—“  
  
“Yep! All good! I, uh… guess this is goodnight.”  
  
There was a long, awkward pause as none of them moved.  
  
Felipe looked between them and tried to think of some excuse to wander away for a moment, feeling bizarrely like a chaperone, a hundred years too late.  
  
“Well, uh, maybe… I’ll see you around then,” Héctor said eventually.  
  
“Do you know where our shop is?” Imelda said suddenly.  
  
“Oh! Yes, I do… yeah,” Héctor muttered, sounding faintly embarrassed.  
  
“Good. Our house is just behind it. Come by tomo- no wait…” Imelda hesitated, mulling it over. “Yes. Come by tomorrow evening. I think the rest of the family would be interested in meeting you. Assuming you’re feeling well enough, of course.”  
  
“Absolutely! By tomorrow I’ll be back to a hundred and ten percent.”  
  
“All right, I’m counting on it.”  
  
With that she walked away, and Felipe couldn’t help but notice the broad smile she was trying to hide. Oscar followed and Felipe turned as well, but then looked back and caught Héctor’s eye. For a moment there was a tight tension between them, a great deal still left unsaid. Then Felipe smiled, nodding at him.  
  
Héctor relaxed, gave a salutary wave of his hand and, turning a corner, he was gone.  
  
As he followed the rest of his family, Felipe could only hope that this time, Héctor would keep his word.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keeping this fic chugging! Only got a few more chapters planned and then I get to (finally!) move on to the 'sequel' where stuff gets fun (and very self-indulgent, not gonna lie).  
> Also, funny thing when writing this chapter is I realized I kinda mis-spoke on an earlier author's note... I thought Felipe was the nicer of the two, but in fact he's actually mainly nicer to Imelda, heh. It was a blast exploring the dynamics between them all.
> 
> Anyway, hopefully this fandom keeps lingering, I love reading all the other great fics and authors about these lovely characters.  
> Thanks for reading :)


	6. Going Home

Héctor went slowly as he wound his way through the sleepy back alleys of the Land of the Dead, hoping to be able to make it home without talking to another soul, still reeling from his talk with Imelda at the theater, after the craziest Dia de Los Muertos he had ever experienced, and he had had quite a few wild experiences over the years.  
  
Good God, he was tired…  
  
But on the plus side- things were great!  
  
Again he paused as a wide smile split his face at the thought of Coco remembering him, the surge of pride for his great-great-grandson, and the incredible hope that he might have another chance with Imelda, something he had long given up hope on.  
  
Still, it was hard to think straight or walk straight with the heaviness in his bones. He badly needed sleep. Fortunately, no one paid him any mind and he was careful not to make eye contact, drifting through the dark world like a half-strung marionette. People rarely paid him much attention anyway, with his tattered clothes and gray bones, and while normally that would be somewhat annoying, at that time it was a relief as he tried not to close his eyes too long and risk falling on his face.  
  
His relief only grew as he stumbled down the ramp to Shantytown. He made no attempt to call out to the many skeletons who lingered in doorways and walked along the pathways, hoping to slip by unnoticed.  
  
Just a little further…  
  
“Héctor?” Someone called out. “Is that you?”  
  
He jerked his head up, catching sight of a figure approaching. He squinted then smiled wide, waving his hand high overhead.  
  
“Ay, Tio! Man, you would not _believe_ what happened to me.”  
  
“Is that Héctor?” A woman called out from a nearby shack, peering out a window.  
  
He winced and realized it was far too late at night to be shouting. In a lower voice, he said, “Yeah, just me. Sorry, sorry, just gonna head on home—“  
  
“Hey everyone, it’s Héctor!” she shouted, “He’s here!”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
He stood by, unsure what was happening as others took up the cry, shouting his name and hurrying towards him. Nervously he stepped back, hoping that he wasn’t in trouble again.  
  
“Héctor! You’re still here!”  
  
“You’re back, I can’t believe it!”  
  
“We thought you were gone!”  
  
“Uh what… what’s going on?” he asked, looking from one beaming face to another.  
  
“We heard about what happened,” one woman said in a low voice. “That you were murdered.”  
  
“And almost Forgotten!”  
  
“Word is you really were the one who actually wrote de la Cruz's songs."  
  
“Of course he was!” An older woman said, glaring at the other skeleton beside her. “You’d know that already if you paid attention.” Héctor felt a small surge of satisfaction, that people were finally believing what he had been saying for so many years. But he wasn’t in the mood to think about it.  
  
“Hey, hey, sorry to break this up but I’m really tired,” he said, stepping away and putting his hands up. “I mean really, _really_ tired.”  
  
There were groans from the crowd.  
  
“Ah, sorry, sorry. We’ll talk later, definitely! But right now, I gotta get some sleep.”  
  
“How can you be so sure you’ll still be here?” one man said, peering at him suspiciously. “You could disappear any moment, you already almost did. Might as well spend it with friends, right?”  
  
“I'll be all right,” he said, and truly meant it. Or at least felt it. “My daughter remembers me, and with Miguel back in the Living, I won’t be disappearing so soon.” His voice softened, thinking that he still had time when so many others didn’t. With a few more words and assurances he finally pulled himself away from the crowd and to the quiet familiar pathway to his own shack. It was worn-down and old, black against the night sky, but it was home.  
  
He pulled open the door and peered into the darkness before sighing in relief. It was empty. He let his body fall slack, his shoulders drooping so low they nearly came off.  
  
“Hey amigos,” he said softly, looking over to names carved into the wall, friends he had promised not to forget. “I’m… I’m back.”  
  
His bones creaked as he stepped across to the messy bed against the wall. “Been a crazy night… real crazy,” he muttered, hanging his head. “Ay, ay… I’m so tired. Just…”  
  
He flopped down onto the crumpled pile of sheets and blankets, and bowed his head, blinking wearily. How was he still so tired after sleeping all day?  
  
“I talked to Imelda,” he said abruptly to the empty room, the memory like a shock every time he thought of it. “I mean… we actually talked, and she listened. Can you believe it? After all this time. All these years and... Oh, I, uh, I met my great-great-grandson, weirdly enough. And he’s all right, don’t worry, he’s not here... Oh yeah, turns out I'd been poisoned... God, I was _murdered._ ”  
  
The word was still bitter in his mouth.  
  
“But I’m all right,” he said reassuringly. “I’m… I’m still here.”

A new wave of exhaustion swept over him, but this time there was a new, uncomfortable feeling of guilt creeping around the edges. He looked up, peering through the darkness to the etched names upon the wall, and then his eyes fell to the ground where he knew a small dagger lay. It was certainly still there because he had held it just that morning, when he thought his time was finally up.  
  
A coldness swept through him. That morning he had been sure he was facing his final day of existence, his final chance…

~~~  
  
On the morning of that Dia de los Muertos, he had woken up gasping, staring into complete darkness. Eventually, he made out the faint outlines of the room and only then confirmed to himself that he hadn’t been Forgotten. Not yet.  
  
Bringing his hands before his face, he studied them but couldn’t see any of the golden shimmer, but he had felt it. It had been faint, like a sparking undercurrent beneath the old yellow bones. With a sigh, he pulled a knee up to his chest and leaned heavily on it, as weariness threatened to pull him down.   
  
His time was finally up.  
  
That day would be his last chance to cross the Bridge, his last chance to see his daughter. Sitting there in the dark familiar room, he knew it was more than that. He could feel his own death approaching, like a stalker in the shadows.  
  
His minutes were ticking by, and yet he found himself unable to move, but lay half-bent over himself, and thought a hundred half-thoughts, but mostly was tired. Morning light finally began to peak through the cracks in the wall when he rose to his feet, leaning heavily against a wall as he forced himself to wake up. He looked around the one-room shack, half full of rubbish and half-baked plans, with a ratty desk in a corner and an old hammock, worn chairs and cots against the walls. It was far messier than it should have been, and he had to shuffle aside old fabrics and assorted things as he stepped through it. He had let it fall to ruin over the past few years, not bothering to make an effort when he knew his time would be up sooner than later. Yet there was a rationale to the chaos, somewhat, and at the desk he double-checked that his papers were still there, touching the wax paper cover, the twine string.

The top read: _for Coco Rivera_.  
  
Inside it held a letter. It had taken him multiple tries to write it, and in the end, it was one of the shorter versions. He had written how much he loved her, that he had always loved her, how he wished he could have been there for her. How very sorry he was.  
  
Beneath the letters were a stack of papers: his songs. Those that he had written in death and were the most important, the dearest to his heart, they would belong to her. If she wished to burn them, that would be her choice. As likely or not they would be burned anyway on some cold night, or be tossed into the surrounding water and would disappear, just like him. He could only hope his words might reach her: that someone would find them, understand, and seek her out.  
  
There should have been a letter for Imelda, but he had given up on writing it. Whatever he might give her, she would burn without sparing a glance and he couldn’t bear that. It was her choice to despise him, he had come to terms with it, and there was nothing he could ever do to change it. Would Imelda know or care if he disappeared? Would anyone?  
  
He felt a shiver, not quite gold, but almost.  
  
He was already so tired… what if he just lay down? Soon, very soon, he would disappear and his old home would once again be empty, a place devoid of even ghosts. Straightening, he looked up and his eyes came to the familar names carved upon the wall, some by his own hand. The last people who had truly cared for him.  
  
“This is it, amigos,” he said in a soft voice. “I know what you mean now, about how tired you get. It'd be nice to just sleep, you know? But this is my last chance. I just want to say goodbye to Coco. I have to try, one more time. But I… I don’t think I’m coming back.” The realization hit him just as the words left his mouth, an uncomfortable truth he hadn’t quite faced. He might never step through that door again. Somehow, that made it seem more real.  
   
In the thin silence he stepped to the wall and ran his bony fingers along the names, tracing the crooked letters, feeling the small gouges where the one writing had stumbled. He remembered the last one he had written, a decade before, and the unbearable, crushing loneliness that he was left in. He remembered how badly his hands had shaken as he etched the name, one fumbling stroke at a time because even when the rest of the world forgot them, their names proved they had existed. The only name missing... was his own.  
  
He took his small knife from his belt, feeling the weight of it in his hand, pressed the chipped edge against his palm, judged it sharp enough, and gripped it tight. He would have to add his own name to their memorial. Somehow, it seemed important. A small, pathetic attempt to tie himself together to his found familia, people he had loved, and who had loved him in return.

He stood there, one hand pressed against the wood, only faintly conscious of the passage of time, and hesitated. He knew he was fading. There was no question. Once Coco forgot him, he would just… fade. Forever. Finally, with a shuddery exhale, he pressed the tip of the dagger to the dark wood and then stopped, breathing hard and rubbing his hand over his face. This was his final chance to have some small part of him remain in that world. It seemed so important and yet, so meaningless. One day the place and the names would rot away or burn up in smoke, and no one would care.  
  
He closed his eyes and let his head fall forward, thudding on the wall, and allowed himself to remember their finest moments together, playing and dancing and laughing, the long nights and hot days on the docks looking out over the water. What would they say if they could see him now?  
  
A sudden laugh left him and his hand dropped to his side, the knife thudding on the floor. Almost certainly, they would be telling him to not be such a damn idiot, and to go see his daughter. Hell, they’d probably be telling him to go see Imelda as well, but he knew better than to chance that. But he got the message. Enough self-pity. He had to wake up and take advantage of the little time he had left.

"All right, all right, I hear you," he said grinning, then shook himself awake, his bones rattling around. It made him feel more alive, and that was just what he needed. "I'm not gone yet. One more shot at this. Gonna go borrow a dress from Ceci, head over to the bridge, and try something pretty dumb, honestly. If not that, well, I've got a few more options. What's the worst they can do to me, right?"  
  
He glanced around at the shabby shack, his home for so many years, full of memories and carrying the names of his friends. Chances are, he would never return. Just before stepping out, his hand lingered on the door, looking back and thought how empty and cold his home looked. And that it would stay that way.  
  
“Adiós...”  
  
~~~

  
Blinking and faintly looking around the dark room, he was again keenly reminded how very, very close he had been to disappearing for good. If he hadn’t met Miguel, if things had gone the slightest bit wrong…  
  
“It’s all right, though,” he muttered, both to himself and to the ghosts that weren't there. “Things are… ok. Good, even. Things are good.”  
  
He sighed. He was too tired.  
   
“I’ll tell you later,” he whispered as he lay down, setting his hat on the floor. “Promise… I just… need to sleep… gotta wake up in time… meet Imelda…”  
  
He closed his eyes and was out before his next breath.  
  
After so many years he finally had a second chance, he wasn’t going to let it slip by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written a while ago, or at least planned, and it's amazing how much has changed since it's first conception (at least regarding backstory)  
> There may be a bit of wait before the next few chapters get released, as I start posting the ‘sequel’ fic instead. I’ve got three more chapters for this planned and half-written, so I’m not done with it yet, I just need to wait for my heart to get back into it.  
> Also this chapter, in particular, is a pretty big teaser of what’s coming up!


End file.
